


and the holy dove was moving too

by orphan_account



Category: Tokyo Babylon
Genre: Disturbing Themes, Gen, Prophetic Dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 05:01:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The future calls out to Subaru. He does not know how to answer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and the holy dove was moving too

**Author's Note:**

> originally written in late 2011 -- not redone from scratch but touched up in a lot of places at least. warning for slight incestuous themes but not really? subaru doesnt want to grow up. lets leave it at that

There is one night where he finds her dying, maybe: she is sitting beside the window with her face tilted up towards the stars, eyes glazed over and milky. There is blood dripping steady all the way down from her brow to her jaw but when he brushes up her fringe he finds no wound, no break in her skin, nothing wrong and yet everything; her skin is soft beneath his fingers, softer than anything he has known in a long time—Hokuto, his Hokuto, untouchable to the end even as he buries himself in harm. This is how it starts.

She turns to look at him and he is suddenly, inexplicably gripped by the thought he is seeing her now for the very first time. He finds himself aware of every movement down to every breath and it fills him with dread he can't quite put purpose to. She blinks and her eyelashes smear red; she smiles, perfect white teeth in a perfect pink mouth. "Subaru," she says, low and smooth, a voice like sweet-tea. The blood with no beginning continues with no end, down the curve of her throat, over the jut of her clavicle. "Ah, Subaru."

Her hand moves to his face and passes the barrier of his skin without pause as though it is the most normal thing in the world. He breathes in trembling, sharp as a blade cutting through his throat, finding his mouth full of the thrum of her pulse, the faint burn of her blood—the web of her veins paints itself under his skin. Hokuto laughs, good-natured and familiar, eyes glittering. She shifts closer until he can feel the feathery fabric of her dress against him but when he looks down she is naked, bathed in dark but nothing hidden, that ever persistent line of blood herded between her breasts. "Let me look at you, Subaru."

His name in her voice sounds now almost foreign. He closes his eyes and considers being her, imagines the shape of his name forming in his mouth where it is now hers, whatever the difference may be—'Su-ba-ru', he thinks, again and again, and when he opens his eyes once more he is not sure if he is seeing Hokuto or himself. Whoever it is presses into whoever he might be, closer and closer still. Their blood is mixing and their heartstrings have begun to tangle, all tied together now into one city-map of flesh, roads of red and blue right up to the horizon: it is too much to process, and he is terribly tired. 

Subaru falls into Hokuto, or maybe himself—falls forever.

* * *

He wakes breathless. The sun has not yet begun to rise and his hands will not stop shaking; he is startled and ashamed of it. He does not even consider trying to fall back into sleep and instead stays up, waiting for when Hokuto will rise and see the subtle tremble of his fingers and the catch in his breath at the sight of her face and immediately go to make him tea. Its warmth and her smile settle him slowly but all the same he spends the rest of the day distractingly aware of the little things, the slightest affirmations of self: his pulse in his wrists, his bones beneath his skin, Hokuto's teeth in her mouth. Here are the lines, he thinks, here is where they lie, and it comforts him for reasons indecipherable even to himself.

Later, Hokuto makes some small perverted joke with Seishiro-san, and, entirely preoccupied with the curve of her lips, coy and loving, he as always still flushes—but perhaps not for the reason he is expected to, or should.  

* * *

He dreams, again, another night or maybe the same: he is in the bathroom with Hokuto, this time, eyes on the two of them in the mirror. He is naked now where she is not and his hair clings damp to the back of his neck; she curls one flat, dark strand of it around her finger, and he thinks of being children, of bathing together, unknown to shame and self-awareness and scars. "You're becoming such a handsome young man, Subaru," she says to him from over his shoulder, breath warm on his cheek. "I—"

She cuts off, or maybe never started at all. Subaru opens his mouth to ask her 'what?' but finds suddenly that it is filled right up to the brim with blood: of course, he thinks, of course, something in me has broken and it's been a long time coming. It makes perfect sense and yet, more reasonably, terrifies him. Hokuto smiles for him so wide and bright and winsome now that he is almost caught in the reflection of it where his eyes stray from the striking red splatter of his face; he almost says her name, between two heaving attempts at breath, and almost chokes on it. 

Her fingers slide over the curve of his cheek, so close to where his mouth splits open, too close; Subaru shuts his eyes and walks away, away from whatever distant part of the heart has conjured this into being, away through the wall and past the mirror and all the way into wakefulness, where her eyes are not so glassy and her smile is not so sharp. 

* * *

He is sitting at breakfast with her one morning, in the quiet glow of the early-risen sun, when he suddenly considers telling her. He pauses momentarily with his chopsticks near to his mouth and lowers them frowning: he can find no words of any use. His chest feels impossibly tight. He speaks without planning. "Hokuto-chan?"

She blinks and sets down her bowl. Her eyes are large and bright, entirely alive: he cannot meet them. "Ah?"

"Do you—do you love me, Hokuto-chan?" His mouth is dry and his voice catches; it feels as though there is something stuck in his throat. He almost readies for her to laugh at him but when he looks she is frowning.

"Of course I do," she says, head tilted, face all full of worry. "You're my brother." His hands tremble, then. He almost expects himself to sink through the floor, any moment now, and very deliberately avoids looking her in the eyes. He feels frighteningly weak. "Subaru? Is—is something wrong?" 

He opens his mouth and tries very hard not to think of the taste of blood. "No, Hokuto-chan," he says, considering the future, considering loss, wondering when he will feel her skin still soft and warm and without-wounds for the very last time of their lives and if, when it comes, he will know— _this is how it ends_. "Nothing."


End file.
